Her New Year's Fortune

by ALLISON LEIGH,

  “Bobby. Captain of the football team?” He didn’t need her to confirm it; he could see the truth in her eyes. And he’d bet his last dollar that there’d been few, if any, other men during the years between. Making love with Sarah-Jane wasn’t like anything he’d ever experienced. But he still recognized her inexperience. She was too unguarded to hide anything, especially her emotions.

  When she’d cried out that she’d loved him while she’d climaxed, he’d nearly come undone.

  He’d been so lost in her that at first, he almost hadn’t even realized what she’d said. And he was certain that she hadn’t realized what she’d admitted, at all.

  “Your captain was an ass and if you’ve let him affect the way you think about yourself, then you’re letting him get a lot more than a hundred bucks and a spot in hell outta the deal.”

  She made a production out of retying the thick flannel belt around her waist. “A man who can say things like that to me is a man who also ought to be able to give his own father some benefit of the doubt.”

  Jesus. And his mother thought he was stubborn.

  Sarah-Jane positively scared the hell out of him.

  He snatched up his jeans and yanked them on. If Felicity hadn’t come busting in, he wouldn’t have thought twice about spending the night with Sarah-Jane. Maybe, with her in his arms, he would’ve actually managed to sleep through the night again.

  And using her for his own benefit like that, knowing the way she felt, was probably earning him a spot next to the bastard football kid.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “You saying you don’t care if your roommate hears us making love through the walls?” Sarah-Jane hadn’t exactly been quiet. Admittedly, he’d blatantly relished her unbridled responsiveness. But that didn’t mean he wanted an audience listening in.

  Her cheeks went red.

  “That’s what I figured.” He searched for his shirt. Found it in a crumpled heap along with her panties under the corner of the bed. He dangled the sexy little bit of sheer white from his fingertip. “Yours?”

  She snatched them from him, shoving them in her pocket. “You seem to be amused by something.”

  He wasn’t amused in the least.

  He still wanted her. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get enough of her. And it wasn’t an easy thing to deal with, particularly after those gasping words she’d cried. Nothing about her was turning out to be easy to deal with, especially the painful honesty in her eyes that warned him those words hadn’t escaped only because of the heat of the moment.

  Yet, he wasn’t looking for love. He wanted to protect her.

  He wanted to shake her.

  And he wanted to lose himself in the pleasure of her.

  He wasn’t stupid enough to think he could accomplish it all. Not when he was probably the thing she needed the most protection against.

  He didn’t consider himself a player, but he’d never not had casual sex before. He didn’t do love. He’d only ever seen one woman at a time; when he was with her, he wasn’t with anyone else. But even so, he’d known those other women were no more serious about him than he was about them.

  In comparison, Sarah-Jane was a seductive minefield.

  Yet he couldn’t make himself keep away from her.

  He wasn’t sure that he wanted to waste more time trying. He did care about her. But love? The very idea seemed crazy.

  “What are you thinking?” Her voice was soft. Her gaze was probing. Seeing enough that he felt raw from it.

  “I’m thinking if I don’t get out of here, Felicity’s going to overhear a few things no matter what I intend.”

  Too aware of the emotion in her expression that she either wasn’t equipped to hide or didn’t want to, he yanked on his wrinkled shirt and buttoned it, not particularly caring that two of the buttons were missing. Hiding, no doubt, somewhere among that ridiculously soft bedspread of hers. He left the shirt untucked. His jacket was still downstairs. It’d cover up the rest of the worst. He sat down on the foot of her bed to pull on his socks and boots and gently nudged her out of the way of the door so he had room to get through it.

  She looked up at him. Her fire-kissed hair was a tangled mess, sticking out on one side where she’d tucked it behind her ear. Her cheeks looked red from his whiskers. And she was about the most beautiful thing he’d ever had looking up at him with such trust.

  “Are you going to be all right?”

  “I’m a Fortune,” he said dismissively. “We’re always all right.”

  Her gaze just remained steady on his face.

  He supposed it might be comforting to have someone seem to see right into you. But he was quickly realizing it was also damned uncomfortable. “I’m a Fortune,” he repeated. And this time they both could hear all the weight that came with the name in his tone. “Not being all right isn’t allowed.”

  She stretched up on her toes and pressed her lips to his cheek. Then the other, before tugging his head lower until she could softly kiss his forehead. “The only thing I care about is that you’re Wyatt,” she said softly.

  He steeled himself when she hesitated. Decided he’d better just kick Captain Football to the back of the line, because he was suddenly terrified that she’d say those three little words. Now. Not in the grip of an orgasm, but fully intentionally.

  And he...he was afraid he didn’t have those words to give. He’d never said them to a woman who wasn’t his mother or his sister. Never wanted to. And now, with them blocked away inside him, as sure as the sun rose every morning, he’d lose her because of it.

  His chest tightened.

  Her fingers smoothed over his forehead. “And that you’re happy with the choices you’re making,” she finished even more softly.

  His knees actually went weak. Hell was going to be too good of a place for him. “Red Rock is my choice.”

  “Okay.” She lowered back onto her heels. There was a small smile of agreement on her lips and a world of disagreement in her eyes. But she didn’t say anything more. Just stood there twisting mercilessly at the ugly flannel tie around her waist.

  If he stayed, they’d either argue or make love and right then, he couldn’t handle more of either.

  So he pulled open the door and she followed him downstairs.

  There was no sign of her roommate. Poor kid was probably hiding somewhere, trying to scrub out her eyes.

  The whiskey was where he’d left it. He pulled on his jacket and contented himself with a fast kiss on Sarah-Jane’s cheek, before letting himself back out into the night.

  He practically gulped in a lungful of cold, damp air.

  He’d escaped.

  He wished to heaven he could figure out from what.

  * * *

  The next day, Sarah-Jane returned to the park. She hadn’t heard from Wyatt since he’d left her apartment the night before, but she was certain, absolutely certain that he’d come to see her at the park.

  But the only one occupying the bench she’d come to think of as theirs was a wizened old man with a cane and his newspaper. She hovered there long enough waiting for Wyatt to appear to know that the old man wasn’t there to feed the birds, either. Every time one hopped close, he waved his cane and muttered crankily until it hopped away.

  She scattered her seed in the grass and glared at the man when he started to wave his cane. Then she stood there protectively until all the birds had scarfed up their fill before she carried the peanut butter sandwich and apple she’d packed for Wyatt back to the shop with her. She reminded herself that she ought to know better than to make assumptions.

  But she didn’t hear from him that afternoon, either. Or that night.

  On Saturday, trying to pretend she felt perfectly comfortable doing it, she called his hotel. But the phone only rang and rang and rang until an automated message requested she leave a message. She hung up quickly, afraid she’d sound too anxious.

  On Sunday morning, she called his cell phone number that he’d programmed into
her phone that one day. It seemed so long ago even though she knew it really wasn’t. The line didn’t even ring, but went straight to his voice mail. Trying to ignore the hollow feeling that had been growing in the pit of her stomach since he’d kissed her on her cheek—her cheek!—after they’d made love, she quickly spoke. “Hi. It’s Sarah-Jane. Just, uh—” falling apart, obviously “—just checking in to see how you are. Your sister came into the shop the other day. Victoria.” She thumped her fist against her forehead. Of course the man knew who his sister was. He only had the one. “Anyway, just thought I’d give you a buzz.” She ended the call, and dropped her head onto the kitchen table with a thunk.

  “Come on,” Felicity said behind her. “You’re not hanging around here moping. Come to the shop with me. At least you’ll be busy.”

  Sarah-Jane lifted her head. “Why not? Anything’s better than sitting around, waiting pathetically for the man I’m in love with to contact me.”

  “Gee. Thanks.” Her tone was dry, but Felicity’s eyes were filled with sympathy. “I’m sure he’s just been busy,” she added. “Or maybe he’s gone to talk to his father. I know how much you believe he needs to.”

  “Maybe.” If she said it often enough, would it seem more believable? Wyatt’s opinion about his father’s actions seemed set in stone.

  When her cell phone buzzed later that afternoon, everything inside her leaped for joy. She eagerly put the phone to her ear, only to hear her mother’s voice and not Wyatt’s at all.

  “I might as well tell you that I know all about this Wyatt business,” her mother said as soon as she’d gotten the requisite “hello, how was your week” out of the way.

  Sarah-Jane went out the back door of the candy shop for some privacy. “What do you mean?”

  “The picture’s on the internet, Sarah-Jane. He’s in Arizona with some tall blonde woman.” Yvette’s voice actually softened. “I could have warned you, honey. Men like that don’t settle for women like us.”

  Sarah-Jane pinched her eyes shut. She wouldn’t believe it. He’d have an explanation. “Did some man like that break your heart, Mom, before you met Dad?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Sarah-Jane.”

  And she sighed. Because even if some man had, she doubted that Yvette would ever want to—or be able to—share it with her daughter. “Wyatt’s there on business.” She childishly crossed her fingers against the apron tie behind her back. “I’m going to let you go, because Felicity needs my help at her shop, okay?” She didn’t wait for a response to that second, blatant lie. “I love you. I’ll talk to you next week.”

  She pushed the phone into her pocket and went back inside. When she told Felicity what her mother had said, her friend’s blue gaze widened. “I don’t believe it.”

  Sarah-Jane appreciated the confidence.

  But later that night, when she was alone in her bedroom and her cell phone had remained silent all that day, she turned on her laptop.

  The photograph was the first one that popped up as soon as she typed Wyatt’s name in the search engine.

  A news item, from a Phoenix paper, covering the opening of some new museum there.

  The latest woman was blonde. Tall. Skinny.

  Everything that Sarah-Jane was not.

  Wyatt’s hand was on her arm. He was wearing sunglasses, but there was a smile on his face.

  She knew him well enough to recognize that the smile was a real one.

  She slowly closed the laptop.

  Climbed out of bed and exchanged the blue-and-white plaid shirt she’d been wearing for one of her old, familiar Stocking Stitch polos.

  She thought about throwing the plaid shirt away. Maybe it would make her feel better if she did. But the ache inside her went much too deep to be salved by something so easy. Instead, she placed it carefully in the laundry bag. Once she’d washed it, she’d make sure it was returned to where it belonged.

  Like other wishful dreams, she’d already held on to it for too long.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Sarah-Jane, niña, you have someone here to see you.” Maria spoke softly since there were a dozen women crowded around Sarah-Jane in the work area, knitting and gossiping away.

  A customer, Sarah-Jane assumed, and handed the knitting needles and stitching she’d been assisting with back to the teenager who’d accompanied her mother and her three aunts all the way from Dallas. “Remember,” she reminded the girl, “count your stitches before you go on to the next row.” She patted her shoulder as she pushed away from the table. “Otherwise, you’re doing really great. I wish I’d have learned how fun knitting could be when I was your age. All your friends are going to want you making them all sorts of things.” She winked. “Maybe even a crocheted bikini.”

  The shy girl looked hopeful as she caught her lip between her teeth and focused on her project. The girl’s mother sent Sarah-Jane a grateful smile.

  Maria had disappeared seemingly into thin air, and Sarah-Jane carefully worked her way around the extra chairs they’d set up to accommodate the large group, and headed toward the front of the store. But the smile that she had automatically pinned to her face faded when she saw no knitting customers browsing in the front of the shop.

  Only Wyatt, standing there wearing a dark blue suit and red tie, carrying a leather briefcase.

  Every nerve she possessed jangled with alarm as well as about a million other things that were simply too painful to think about.

  He didn’t look like the Wyatt she knew.

  The Wyatt with faded jeans and casual shirts; with a battered leather jacket and worn boots. The man she’d thought she’d understood.

  She pushed away the thought. “You look like you’ve just come from a business meeting,” she greeted. She didn’t know what else to say.

  The last time they’d spoken, her body had still been pulsing from his lovemaking.

  Seven days ago.

  It would have been funny if his repeated absenteeism weren’t so painful.

  “More or less.”

  She realized he was referring to her business-meeting comment. His hair was brushed back from his face. As handsome as he looked, she still thought his face looked weary. Or maybe that was wishful thinking, too. That he felt as worn down as she did.

  “I was over at the Fortune Foundation,” he added. “You haven’t been in your park.”

  She wanted to ask him what he’d been doing at the Fortune Foundation, but didn’t. She’d learned her lesson, asking questions of him that were too personal. Taking everything too personally. He’d said he hadn’t felt casually about her and from then on, her foolish heart had started knitting fantasies out of thin air. “We’ve been busier than usual here.” It was true enough. The shop was keeping them busy. Particularly since she’d finally managed to let go of Carmen, though she’d first arranged a more suitable job for the girl with the local parks association. There Carmen would be able to put in more hours and earn that extra money to help feed her family that she’d been so desperate for that she’d felt compelled to slip money from the knitting shop’s till. “I’ve been working through my lunch hours,” she added.

  He didn’t look as if he believed her, but he didn’t push the matter. “I’ve got something I want to show you.”

  “Why?”

  “Not what?” He sighed a little. “Please, Sarah-Jane. It’ll just take an hour or so. Can you get away from here?”

  “Of course she can,” Maria inserted, appearing out of nowhere. Her smile was beatific; completely oblivious to the look that Sarah-Jane gave her. “She can have the entire afternoon, in fact.” She patted Sarah-Jane’s arm. “It’s not as if you ever take any time off, niña.”

  Left with no graceful way out, Sarah-Jane retrieved her purse from the office and went outside with Wyatt. But there she stopped. “I’m sorry, Wyatt. But I really don’t want to go anywhere with you.”

  He looked pained. “I deserve that. I know. Just...please.”

  She needed to turn o
n her heel and walk away. But if she did that, he’d know how much he’d hurt her. And somehow, it was suddenly important that she not give him that, too. Another thing she’d learned from him. So she stepped over to the truck that he’d parked in front of the shop. He opened the door for her and not even refusing to draw breath could mask the incredible smell of him as she climbed inside. He tossed his briefcase behind her on to the seat in the back and went around to get behind the wheel.

  But he didn’t immediately start the engine. “How have you been?”

  She kept her gaze glued out the front window. “Fine,” she lied without a speck of regret. “You?”

  “You have dark circles under your eyes.”

  She could say the same about him. “How nice of you to point that out.” She knew she sounded bitchy, but couldn’t seem to help it. She exhaled. “What do you want from me, Wyatt?”

  “More than I ever expected,” he murmured, more to himself than Sarah-Jane, or so it seemed to her. He started the truck and pulled smoothly out into the light traffic. “I told you. I want to show you something.”

  The answer was no more satisfying than it had been the first time. She stared out the side window and reminded herself that she had no reason to feel one iota of anything pleasurable or hopeful just because he’d come around again. Given his proclivity for disappearing, he’d undoubtedly soon be off again. “How are your brothers?” she asked, just to make conversation.

  “Fine. I haven’t seen them since I got back to town this morning. I’ve been in Arizona. I was there for a few days.”

  She frowned. More like a week. She nearly called him on it, but controlled the impulse. Just as she controlled the impulse to tell him he’d have been better off going to Atlanta and resolving the situation that had driven him to Red Rock in the first place. “What’s in Arizona?” Asking was like picking at a raw wound.

  “A ninety-year-old woman named Gertrude.”

  Her head swiveled around. “Excuse me?”

  He shrugged and gave a smile that, in her opinion, was distinctly shy of humor. “I know. Who’d expect it? Gertrude Leyva, actually. She’s an art historian and she’s not quite the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met, but she’s close.”